


On the Care and Feeding of One's Keyboardist

by Dashiell_Mirai



Category: Emerson Lake & Palmer (Band), Keith Emerson (Musician)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I guess???, If You Squint - Freeform, Sass and sarcasm within, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22097725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dashiell_Mirai/pseuds/Dashiell_Mirai
Summary: He's gorgeous. He's funny. He's got absolutely ripping keyboard skills and a smile that could light up the darkest room.He's also sick, sightly hungover, and late for a meeting.And virtually none of the dishes in his house have been washed.Fuck's sake, Keith.
Relationships: Keith Emerson/Original female character
Kudos: 6





	On the Care and Feeding of One's Keyboardist

With an easy expression on my face, my Jaguar XJ smoothly made its way up the drive to Keith's house– although mansion would be a more apt term. 

I got out, shielding my eyes. Though it was autumn, the sun never seemed to set on the West Indies, or at least never turn down its glare. 

I let myself in via the front door– I had a key, of course– andstalked into the house. Stalked, specifically, because I'd gotten a new pair of shoes the previous day, which were a bit pointy and made very satisfying clicky noises on any hard surface. 

I had a gander around. Keith didn't seem to be around, which was odd, considering at this hour he generally wouldn't be out of the house. Noon was in the interval between him finishing his morning routine, and him being ready to actually potentially go out and do things. 

I stalked my way up the stairs like a runway model with murder on her mind, for no particular reason other than that I felt like it. 

Runway-walking, not murdering, that is. 

When I got to the spacious, airy bedroom at the top of the stairs, I couldn't really clomp anymore, because there was carpet everywhere. 

And I didn't really want to (although I could've done just to be mean), because Keith was still in bed. 

"Keith?" I called out, though at a pretty reasonable volume. 

No response. 

I looked at him, and then frowned. He wasn't dead, at least- the covers were pulled aside just enough so that I saw his thin chest going up and down- but for him to still be completely asleep at a quarter til one, not even swimming or just sitting around the house doing sod all, something must've been wrong.  


Cautiously, I took a few steps forward, leaning down and forward a bit. 

"Keith?" 

He must've heard me, because his eyelids fluttered a bit (while still remaining closed) and he shifted his head an inch or so to the right. With a small sigh, I sat down on the side of his bed, and unceremoniously flicked him on the nose.  


He made a sharp "Nnn!" noise, and his eyes blinked open. He stared at me for a second, eyes wild and unfocused, until he seemed visibly to remember who I was. 

He blinked groggily, and reached up a hand to rub his nosetip, so grievously afflicted with a Flick. 

"Berry," he croaked. 

I smiled faintly. "Who else?" 

He flung his arm over his eyes, presumably to try to keep out the light. 

"Fuck off." 

I crossed my arms.  "No." 

"Why not?" 

"It's nearly one o'clock. You don't seem to have gotten up at all. Are you feeling quite alright?."

He groaned. "I wouldn't go so far as to say I feel 'alright', no." 

"Well, what  _is_ wrong, then?" 

"Feel like shit," he mumbled into the pillow.

"So I gathered." 

After a bit of a pause, he said, quite emphatically, " _Shit_." 

"What?" I asked back. 

He started trying to sit up, which was a bit like watching an ant pick up a pebble more than 10 times its size.

"I've got a meeting at one. Some blokes from Manticore," he mumbled. 

I laid a firm hand on his forehead, which seemed to pin him in place through his own submission.  He looked into my eyes with an expression that said, "Will you let me move now?" 

I blinked into a frown. "You're burning up." 

He moved to get off the bed. "Well, I'll live, won't I?" 

I shrugged, still visibly concerned. "Well, yeah, but you'll be miserable."

Although from what I could tell, the misery had already started. He'd gotten out of bed, but was looking quite green around the gills. 

"Why the hell do you want to go to this meeting so badly, anyhow?" I asked.

He pulled on a pair of trousers, the light-coloured jeans that had been lying on the floor (which I strongly suspected he'd worn yesterday). 

"Well," he said, grunting a bit as he did up his belt, "they've flown in. From England. I'd hate to waste their, uh, their time. And money-  our money." 

I stood up, shrugging again. "Suit yourself. Although you  really don't look well." 

"If I looked well, then appearances really _would_ be deceiving, wouldn't they?" he said with a grim chuckle. 

Successfully having gotten a grubby t-shirt on, he nearly tripped over a pair of sandals trying to get them on while running down the stairs. 

No, what he actually _did_ trip over was pretty much nothing, or more likely his own feet, with a startled exclamation of "Fuck!" 

I winced as he landed at an awkward angle on the hardwood floor, and rushed over to him. 

"Oh, oh oh," I clucked under my breath. "You alright, love?" 

He took his hand off his ankle, which he'd been holding tightly. There was blood. He looked a bit miffed. 

"Stay there. I'll get you a bit of gauze or something," I cautioned him. 

He, of course, ignored me completely, struggling to his feet like the world's most disagreeable baby gazelle. 

"I-I've had worse on, you know, the average Tuesday evening," he said with a shaky laugh. 

Which was completely true. A scratch to the ankle was absolutely nothing compared to his usual repertoire of injuries. Still, that wasn't really the bit I was worried about here. 

With a disapproving frown on my part, he started towards the door. He really didn't get very far before faltering, stopping, and doubling over suddenly, clapping his hand to his mouth. 

I ran over to him and put an arm around his back. 

"Here- come on..." 

I guided him as quickly as I could to the lavatory, which was fortunate, because he was sick a second later, and it's always better to be sick in the toilet than on there floor.  Or me. Or, god forbid, my brand-new espadrilles. Eugh. 

Anyhow, I held his hair out of his face, and muttered some things like "Come on, better out than in. God, you must've felt awful." 

Eventually, he stopped, and looked quite pathetic, if I'm honest. He looked up at me, and without saying a word, I could see that he was quite miserable by any definition of the word. 

I helped him to his feet, and held him up while he splashed some water on his face. He took several sips from the faucet, and spat it out with a bitter face. 

I grimaced sympathetically. "Not fun, eh?" 

He shook his head. 

"Have you got the time?" he asked, when he'd finally gotten the taste out of his mouth. "Left my watch on the nightstand." 

You spared him a glance at your watch. "Five past one. But I really don't think it matters, because what you need is a shower, some aspirin, a lot of bed rest, and maybe some soup if you're lucky." 

He looked up at me, almost as if disoriented, and frowned. "No, Berry, I've got to..." 

I snorted. "Sod the meeting. I mean, you were just busy being sick not even a minute ago!" 

He blinked slowly and his face looked like he had been asked to do some particularly nasty calculus. 

"Alright," he said after a pause which was far too long. "But I'll phone them, though, right?" 

I nodded. "Sure. If you want to, yeah. But take a shower first, would you?" 

He gave me a conceding sort of look. 

"A cold one. You're burning up," I added, stroking my thumb across his forehead. "Just get cleaned up and you'll feel a lot better." 

He sighed. "Yeah, alright." 

I patted him on the back awkwardly. 

"Good. Now I'll just go and get you some clean clothes, alright?" 

He didn't really seem to acknowledge that I'd said anything, but he might have just been out of it. 

I left him to his shower, and indeed did do what I promised, and laid some a clean shirt and trousers that looked like they'd be comfortable and loose-fitting out on his bed. After which he was still in the shower, which left me with a bit of scheming time. Well, not necessarily scheming, per se, seeing as I'd already had a scheme in mind. 

With a heavy sense of dread, I went to have a look in the fridge. Now, seeing as I was in the picture, and in quite myriad, if not necessarily  _good_ company, Keith was technically not a bachelor, but he did his damnedest to live like one. 

Judging by the buildup in the sink, he'd thought to wash the dishes a few times this week, but was just mostly going to leave it to the cleaning lady. Again. 

I opened the fridge, fully expecting a few science-experiments-in-progress, but nope. Mostly there was just beer. And things to make sandwiches with. And a few withered vegetables. 

A smile crept onto my face. Ah, yes.  _That_ was an idea. 

A few minutes later, Keith stumbled out of the shower, still drying himself. I looked up from what I was doing. 

"Your clothes are on the bed, by the way." 

"Thanks," he mumbled, and then stumbled up the stairs. 

A few minutes later, he came down, fluffing his hair with a towel. I smiled at him. 

He blinked owlishly. "What?" 

"Nothing. You just look like you're doing a bit better, is all." 

He let out a wry laugh. "Well, I don't know about that, but at least, you know, at least I'm mostly awake now."

Then he seemed to realise something, and leaned over to look at what I was doing, which was chopping up several very small and slightly mouldy sausages. 

"What are you doing? Is that the soup you were talking about?" he asked, presumably in reference to the bubbling pot on the stove. 

"Yup." 

He poked it around a bit with the spoon I'd left in it. 

"Are these bits of  _pickle_?" 

"Yep. Hey, coming through," I warned him. 

He moved out of my way, and I scraped the sausage into the pot, after which I gave it a good stir. He laughed, his expression shifting between various degrees of puzzled and amused. 

"Are you trying to poison me?" 

"No, and judging from what you were drinking last Saturday night, or technically  _morning_ , I should say, there's only one person who's trying to poison you. His name's Keith Noel Emerson, and he's a right bastard." 

He laughed ironically. 

"Yeah, isn't he?" 

"Yeah, but he's  _my_ bastard," I said, leaning in for a kiss. 

He obliged. It was by far not the most romantic kiss I'd ever experienced, but honestly I was just glad he'd washed taste of sick out of his mouth. 

"You realise I've probably just given you whatever disease I've got, right?" he said with a soft laugh. 

"Well, serves me right for falling for a bloody plague rat, then," I quipped. 

"Alright, I've got to phone Jeremy- that's the guy I'm missing the meeting with," he explained. 

"You do that. The soup takes a bit to cook, anyhow." 

He went off into the sitting room, and I could hear him talking, without really clearly being able to make out what he was saying. 

I peered around the corner, and just took the time to look at him for a little. I'll admit, it mystified me a little how he managed to look so beautiful while also looking like an absolute dog's breakfast. 

He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants with a scattering of mysterious holes on the right ankle, and a faded blue t-shirt with the logo of a local bar on it, which I couldn't even see because it was inside out. I doubt he even noticed. 

Not to mention, of course, the bags under his eyes were approaching the size of actual shopping totes, and he looked in  severe need of a shave. 

But I still had to acknowledge that there were very few people who I could see their eye colour from across the room. With most people, one actually had to _look_ , which generally led to a brief period of awkward staring into one's eyes. 

But you only had to look at Keith from several meters' distance for it to knock your head sideways like _BAM_ , blue! And his smile, when it reached his eyes, was the best thing in the world. 

He noticed me looking at him, and gave me a smile and the cheekiest wave you could probably imagine. Complete with a little eyebrow-waggle and everything. 

Despite my best efforts, a little bit of joy welled up in my throat. I waved back. 

He didn't stop talking the whole time, which made it feel... more secret. A smile just for us. 

Eventually, he hung up, and when he got a little closer, his tiredness started to show a little more. He sat down at the kitchen table, with his head in his hands, and just sort of went "Uuuuurgh." 

"That bad?" 

He looked up, face still partially in his hands. In that moment, his eyes reminded me a bit of a hound's, they were so enormous and just begging for my sympathy. Which he already had. 

"I feel like several elephants are standing on my head," he muttered. 

"What, at once? How would they fit?" 

"Maybe they're sort of, you know, standing on top of each other." 

"A stack of elephants?" 

"A stack of elephants," he repeated, laughing softly and shaking his head. 

I sighed and got up. "Here, I'll get you some soup." 

As I poured a generous ladleful into what seemed like the only clean bowl left in the house, he watched with, if not interest, than slightly morbid curiosity. 

"What's that concoction called again?" 

"Solyanka," I said, setting it in front of him. "My mum's recipe. It'll cure what ails you, even hangovers– I mean, it's Russian, so  _especially_ hangovers." 

He looked down at it dubiously. 

"You," he said, gesturing with his spoon, "are a Russian spy." 

I exploded into laughter. 

" _Keith,_ _ what _ _on God's green earth_ ," I giggled helplessly. 

"No, it's true. It is!" he countered. "You've been sent by the Russian government to kill me– a man of international renown, it's true– to demoralise the listening public." 

It should be noted that he punctuated each bit of this sentence with a shake of the spoon.

"Fuck's sake, just have some soup," I managed between these laughter, shaking my head. 

He did. And he didn't die, or turn green, at least not immediately. 

I watched him, and I admit I may have been smirking a bit. He was distinctly not looking at me smirking a bit. 

"You know," he said after quite a while, "it's a bit salty." 

"Helps settle your stomach," I responded, all of the sudden quite concerned with my nails.  As I very well should have been. The polish was chipping. 

Keith finished his soup, and, entirely unconnected to the fact that I was staring daggers at him, actually washed the bowl. Then, he flopped back into the chair, which was difficult, considering it was the sort of wooden chair one generally didn't flop into. 

His eyes were closed. 

"God, I'm just so bloody _tired_." 

He squinted at me, scratching some itch on the back of his head. 

"I mean, why am I so damn tired? All I've done today is, er, let's see. Phone someone, lose my grip on last night's dinner, trip over nothing, and, er, sample world cuisine." 

"You've been poorly, you stupid idiot," I reminded him. "Not to mention your sleep schedule has been more of a sleep suggestion for, well, God knows how long. Since before we met, certainly." 

He raised his eyebrows, in a sort of nonplussed way. "Are you sure  _you_ should be lecturing me about this?" 

"I shouldn't. But get your sorry arse in bed anyway." 

He looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite place, then trudged up the stairs. 

I watched him go, not entirely sure why I wasn't right there with him. There was _something_ I was thinking of, surely. I can't remember now. But after a few minutes, I went to join him. 

He was laying in bed, the covers bunched up at his feet. His eyes were closed, and his shirt had gotten pushed up enough for me to see his ribs on one side. 

He looked a bit like one of those elegantly lounging anemic blokes in old paintings, if they had rapidly dressed themselves by stealing from a university laundry. And if those paintings were absurdly soaked in golden sunlight. 

I picked up his comforter and pulled it up to below his chin. He opened one eye. 

"Don't need the blanket," he muttered, his voice a rumble barely audible if you didn't happen to have an ear pressed to his chest. "It's hot." 

"Yes, you do."

"Do not." 

" _Everyone_ needs the blanket. Besides, what are you going to do about it? Move?" 

He said nothing, but closed both of his eyes. The smile on his face, and the little puffs of breath he let out in lieu of laughter said all that needed to be said.

I studied his peaceful form for a while. I'm pretty sure he could feel my eyes on him. He wasn't asleep quite yet. 

After a little, I pulled up a chair next to him, and leaned back in it. I reached out a hand, and put it solidly on his forehead. He made a little "mm" noise, but didn't open his eyes. His skin was still feverishly warm. 

Absently, I stroked his hair with little motions of my thumb. His hair was normally fluffy and blond, a bit like a spaniel owned by an overenthusiastic model, but it was in that state of partial dryness where it was still a bit damp and stringy, but had fluffy bits poking out near the temples and at the ends. 

I continued stroking his hair for god-knows-how-long, but after not long at all, I began to hear some soft snores.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I don't know exactly what year this takes place in, and I don't know how accurate it is to real life, but meh, I had fun.


End file.
